Ends of the Earth (10 page)

Picking up his plate and cutlery, Max said. “Delicious. Think I'll go pay my compliments to the chef.” But as he rose, Mrs. Frost wagged her fork in admonishment.

“Now, now. Where are your manners? Did you ask to be excused?”

Max rolled his eyes. “Can I be excused?”

“It's ‘may I,' and yes, you may,” said the grandmotherly spymaster. “I can see you'll require quite a lot of training in manners and grammar.”

All the more reason to duck this adoption, thought Max. He offered a phony smile and took his leave. Pushing through the swinging door, he entered the warm bustle of the kitchen, with its homey
smells of toast and sausage and lemony soap.

The part-Asian server was setting out the staff's breakfasts on a sturdy oak table by the windows while the second server, a skinny brunette, rinsed cooking utensils and loaded them into a
dishwasher.

Lovingly scrubbing a skillet at the sink stood a middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair, skin like polished ebony, and a thick, sturdy frame wrapped in an apron. The cook, Max guessed.

He passed his plate to the brunette and addressed the woman at the sink. “My compliments,” he said. “First-rate breakfast.”

Her smile was as broad as her Scottish brogue. “Thank ye, laddie. Not many here bother to say thanks—save Mrs. Frost, of course. Impeccable manners, that woman.”

For a heartless killer, Max thought. Aloud, he added, “I was wondering, does everyone in the house eat the same food?”

“Oh, aye,” said the cook. “Save for the really fancy dishes. That's front room only.”

Max cocked his head. “Really? So the guards, for example, will have the same lunch as me today?”

“The smoked haddock chowder? Aye, they will.” She rinsed off the pan. “Why do ye ask?”

“No reason.” Max lifted a shoulder. “Just wanting everyone to enjoy the same lovely meals as me.” Inwardly, he cringed. Would the cook buy this bald flattery?

She beamed as she dried the skillet. “Sweet lad. If only the rest of this crew were half as thoughtful.”

If only you knew, thought Max. But all he said was, “You're too kind.”

AFTER A SESSION
of Internet research on one of the mansion's computers, Max carefully deleted his browsing history. He might not be the most
tech-savvy kid around, but he did know that a good spy always covers his tracks. With a bit of snooping through a bathroom cabinet, he located the necessary ingredients, and then decided he'd
better scout out his escape route.

Heading downstairs and along the main hall, Max ambled up to the back door and tried it. Locked. And what's worse, it was controlled by a key card—and thus completely invulnerable to
his lock picks. Max noted that the windows were locked also, and wired with alarms. LOTUS must not be too keen on getting fresh air.

He was about to go case all the possible exits, when a cheerful whistling caught his attention. Down the hallway trundled the Scottish cook, carrying a teal-blue overcoat and a purse large
enough to hold several baked hams, a butter churn, and a bucket of gravy.

“Ah,” said Max. “Mrs., er…”

“Cheeseworthy,” the woman said. “I'm off to do me shopping. Are ye going somewhere?”

Max made a face. “Well, I was planning to stroll around the grounds, but”—he slapped his pockets—“I seem to have left my card upstairs. So forgetful.”

Mrs. Cheeseworthy's glance went from Max to the door. Her brow furrowed, and he could almost hear her thinking, Is this kid a guest or a captive?

“I'll just slip out with you,” said Max, patting her arm. “It'll be all right.”

“Well, if you're sure…”

He offered his most trustworthy smile. “It's not like I'm a prisoner. Mrs. Frost
is
planning to adopt me, after all.”

“Oh, aye?” said the cook. Her moonlike face still reflected doubt.

“It's a walk around heavily protected grounds,” said Max, forcing a chuckle. “What could happen?”

“That's true.” Mrs. Cheeseworthy's expression softened. “Ye seem a nice enough sort. I don't mind saving ye the trip upstairs.”

“Thanks, ma'am.” Max tried to hide a triumphant grin. He couldn't believe how easy this was. For a LOTUS employee, the cook was pretty trusting.

“And of course, if ye try any mischief,” she said, “ye'll be savaged by dogs or shot by guards.”

Max felt his jaw drop. “Uh, of course.”

Mrs. Cheeseworthy beamed, slid her card through the scanner, and the lock clicked open.

Recovering himself and opening the door with a flourish, Max said, “After you.” He even helped the cook into her overcoat, like the world's last surviving gentleman.

With a finger wave, Mrs. Cheeseworthy crunched across the gravel to an ancient Volvo parked far away from the gleaming Mercedes and BMWs, as if the luxury cars were embarrassed to be seen in its
company. Max jammed his hands into his jeans pockets and sauntered across the parking area. To an observer, he was merely a kid stretching his legs after being cooped up all morning.

But his eyes roved constantly, noting details. The gardener and her assistant, trimming a hedge. The chauffeur polishing a Bentley, shoulder holster bulging under his jacket. The cameras mounted
on light posts.

Giving the workers a friendly wave, he stepped down into the garden, which was larger than an average city's public park. Ranks of rosebushes stretched off in either direction, pruned back
for winter. Fantastic hedges carved into lions and tigers and wolves lined the top of a gentle slope, overlooking enough green rolling lawns to make Tiger Woods drool.

Making his way around an ornamental fountain bristling with cherubs and nymphs, Max headed for the thick stand of trees that bordered the lawn. They were tall enough, he noted, to easily conceal
the LOTUS estate from its neighbors.

Just before he reached the little grove, Max noticed a long, low building tucked away in the bottommost area of the grounds. Unlike the rest of the structures, it was charmless, concrete, and
blocky, and when the wind blew from that direction, he caught a whiff of ripeness—something like wet straw and dog poop. The kennels, maybe? If so, Mrs. Frost must keep enough dogs to stage
her own private Iditarod race, he thought. Or maybe that was where they had stashed last night's mystery pet.

It was cooler among the trees, and when Max pushed aside a branch, it sprinkled him with moisture from the rain earlier that morning. The grove stood tall, but not so deep, and soon he passed
through it, fetching up against the brick wall that surrounded the property.

And what a wall.

The barrier stood a dozen feet high and was topped with two strands of razor wire—most likely electrified, Max guessed. All tree branches were trimmed far enough back that not even a
howler monkey on steroids could make the leap over the wall without hitting the wire.

Max rubbed his forehead. As far as he knew, his family tree had a distinct lack of circus acrobats. There must be another way out….

He walked a short distance along the path that ringed the perimeter. Kicking at the dirt, he wondered whether he might be able to dig a tunnel of some sort, and then he saw it: seven letters
scratched into the damp soil.

Squatting for a closer inspection, Max made out:
G-A-M-B-A-R-E
. “Game-bear?” he muttered, sounding it out. Clearly, the message had been inscribed this morning, after the
rain. Was it encoded? And if so, who was it meant for?

His train of thought was derailed when a savage barking erupted behind him.

“Oi!” came a rough voice. “Where you think you're going?”

It was Styx, the turncoat S.P.I.E.S. agent, being pulled along by two massive, black-and-tan Rottweilers. The huge man wore a scowl like it was the latest Paris fashion. His glare was hot enough
to throw sparks.

“Don't have a thrombo,” said Max. He rose and casually smeared the letters with his foot as he wheeled about. “I'm only stretching my legs.”

Styx stopped about eight feet away. Like iron filings in the presence of a magnet, the dogs pulled to the end of their leashes, eyes glued to Max, growling continuously.

“Stretching your sodding legs?” Styx snarled. “What's this look like, a bloody park?”

Max took in all the manicured trees, the brick wall, and the impeccably groomed path between them. “Well,” he said, “yes.”

“Har-bloody-har,” said the hulking spy. “No outdoor privileges for you. Boss lady said so.”

“She's afraid the sun will damage my delicate skin?” said Max.

“She's afraid you'll hop the wall and sell us out to the highest bidder,” said Styx.

Max acted offended. “You mean she doesn't trust me? I'm wounded.”

“Keep up the comedy, and my mates Wynken and Blynken will show you what wounded really means.”

Max eyed the nearer dog. Its lips had peeled back from a seriously sharp set of fangs, and a rope of drool dangled from its chops. The growling continued unabated, like a pack of Hell's
Angels revving their choppers.

Lifting his hands in mock surrender, Max let Styx and his canine companions herd him back toward the mansion. As they crossed the lawn, he asked the big man, “So, how's your new
employer working out?”

“None of your business,” said Styx.

“They giving you loads more responsibility? Respecting your mad skills?”

Styx said nothing. His face was like a shuttered shop window on New Year's Day.

“No, then?” said Max as they skirted the fountain. “Don't take it too hard, mate. Mrs. Frost hasn't exactly handed me the keys to the kingdom either—not like
Hantai Annie did.”

Styx grunted, eyes narrowing.

Mentioning Annie's name triggered something in Max. It reminded him of the way she used to tell him to hang in there—or
gambare
, in her fractured Japanese English. Wait,
gambare
? What if the letters
G-A-M-B-A-R-E
weren't
gamebear
, but a message from Hantai Annie herself? Had she somehow made it over the wall? Was she even
now—

A dog snarled. “Oi,” said Styx, prodding Max. “Pick up your feet, Segredo.”

Max came back to himself, discovering he'd stopped dead. He couldn't let Styx know what he suspected. What on earth had they just been talking about? Oh, right.

“Maybe Mrs. Frost doesn't give us responsibility because she's afraid we'll betray her to S.P.I.E.S,” he said, trying to keep his face neutral.

The massive man snorted. “Nothing left to betray her to. My team nearly rounded up Vazquez with some of the last dregs.”

Max's stomach gave a flutter at the mention of his friends. Although starved for word of them, he kept his gaze on the mansion and maintained a casual tone. “Oh, yeah?
Nearly?”

“Your blasted girlfriend got in the way.”

Max turned a chuckle into a cough. “That's a shame.”

“Wait till I catch up with her,” the big spy snarled. “I'll teach her not to mess with Styx.”

With a rush of protective feeling toward Cinnabar, Max's next words came out sharper than he'd intended. “Sounds like
they
taught
you
a thing or two. Everyone
got away, eh?”

They crunched across the gravel, the dogs herding Max up to the mansion's side entrance.

“Not for long,” said Styx. He fed his key card into the reader, and the door clicked open. “We got teams out searching. A handful of kids and a lone techie? They're
sitting ducks.”

Styx worked the doorknob and gave Max a none-too-gentle shove into the house. “Stay inside,” he rumbled. “Next time, I unleash the dogs.”

As if they'd picked up on the threat, Wynken and Blynken rumbled a parting growl, their amber eyes glaring daggers at Max.

“Something to look forward to,” he said, shutting the door in their furry faces.

Max drew a long breath and blew it out, a floating sensation spreading through him. Was Annie really on the grounds somewhere? And if so, should he proceed with his escape plan or start hunting
for her? Lost in thought, he wandered down the hall until a slender figure blocked his path.